


A Lucky Meeting

by 27dragons



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 20:32:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2401985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/pseuds/27dragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve had been with Bucky since high school, going on seven years now, and he would never, <em>never</em> cheat. He wasn't that guy. But he wasn't <em>dead</em>, either. And this guy was wearing low-rider jeans and, apparently, nothing else -- no socks or shoes or <em>shirt</em> and... holy <em>fuck</em>, those shoulders.</p><p>(A bit of utterly plotless get-together fluff, inspired by the random tumblr prompt, "found a dog wandering the street and decided to return it to the address on the tag")</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lucky Meeting

The late afternoon sun was beating down hard, baking the breath right out of him, and Steve hoped his asthma wouldn't kick in before he got home, because the inhaler in his pocket had been smashed during that tussle with the mugger. The girl the mugger had been accosting was long gone, of course.

Steve leaned against the hot brick wall, panting for breath and taking stock of his injuries and indignities. They weren't too bad, somewhat to Steve's surprise -- scraped knuckles, a rapidly-swelling black eye, and a torn shirt seemed to be the worst of it. His unexpected ally had arrived while they were just getting started, shouldering between Steve and the mugger with a snarling growl.

The tawny dog was still there, sitting in the mouth of the ally and panting heavily against the heat. It cocked its head at Steve and whined, thumping its tail hopefully on the filthy pavement. One of its eyes was missing, but the injury was old and clean, not a result of this skirmish. Otherwise, the dog seemed to be good condition -- well-fed and damp-nosed and clean-furred. It had to belong to someone.

Steve crouched down and extended a hand. "Hey there," he called. "C'mon over here, boy. You are a boy, right?"

The dog obligingly came over to sniff at Steve's fingers before licking them. Steve grinned and scratched at the dog's ears while reaching for the collar, hoping there would be a phone number or at least a rabies license with a number that could be traced.

It took some doing to turn the collar through the coarse fur, but finally he spotted a metal tag and pulled it around so he could read it. "LUCKY" the first line read, and Steve scratched the floppy ears again. "Lucky?" he said. "Is that you?" The dog's tail wagged enthusiastically, which was as much of an answer as Steve was going to get.

Below the name was an address just a few blocks away, just across the invisible neighborhood boundaries into Bed-Stuy. Steve stood up and brushed off his pants. "Okay, Lucky, let's take you home, I bet your owner is wondering where you've got to." He set off, and Lucky seemed willing enough to follow.

A few passersby gave him dirty looks for not having the dog leashed, but this was New York, after all, so mostly they were just ignored. Steve shrugged at the few glares and kept walking, glancing back every few steps to make sure Lucky was still with him. Lucky paused a few times to sniff at things and pee on them, but when that happened, Steve stopped and waited, and after a moment or two Lucky would catch up and they'd continue on their way.

About a block from the address on Lucky's tag, the floppy ears perked up and Lucky began to trot ahead, apparently realizing he was close to home. Steve thought briefly about just leaving him to it, but he'd come this far; he might as well make sure Lucky made it back to the right place.

He followed Lucky to a brickfront apartment building. By the time Steve caught up, Lucky was sitting in front of the door, looking back at Steve as if to say, "Hurry up, slowpoke."

Steve laughed and re-checked the apartment number on Lucky's tag, then buzzed the number on the intercom.

The response took a few seconds to come back. "Uh, hi? Do I know you?"

"Hi there," Steve said into the mike. He looked around until he spotted the building's security camera, and waved up at it. "I kind of found your dog, I think?" Steve gestured at Lucky, whose tail had gone into overdrive at the tinny voice on the speaker.

"Huh, yeah, I guess you did. Thanks. Come on up, I'm on the eighth floor."

A nerve-grating buzz sounded, and Steve pushed open the door and followed Lucky into the building and into the elevator. An apartment door swung open as they emerged on the eighth floor, and Lucky broke into a run.

"Hey, buddy! Where the hell did you get to?" The man who'd opened the door dropped to one knee to scrub at Lucky's ears, his head bent so that Steve couldn't see his face, but Steve stumbled to a halt anyway, because -- holy fuck, those shoulders.

Steve had been with Bucky since high school, going on seven years now, and he would never, _never_ cheat. He wasn't that guy. But he wasn't _dead_ , either. And this guy was wearing low-rider jeans and, apparently, nothing else -- no socks or shoes or _shirt_ and... holy _fuck_ , those shoulders. And the arms. Steve swallowed hard and managed to drag his eyes up just in time to meet the guy's smile.

"Thanks for bringing him back," the guy said. "He escaped early this morning and was gone before I could grab him. He gets that way, once in a while, just needs to be out and about."

Steve grinned. "I know the type. Well, guess I'll be--"

The guy whistled sharp. "What happened to your face, dude?"

"What?" Steve touched the edge of his cheek, suddenly recalled to the black eye. "Oh. Uh. Little bit of a tussle with a mugger. Good thing Lucky happened to be passing by, really."

"Yeah?" The guy yanked gently on Lucky's ears. "Did you save the day, buddy? Good boy!" Lucky's tongue lolled in a doggy grin, and his owner snorted and stood, stretching out a hand. "I'm Clint, by the way. Clint Barton."

"Um." Steve took two quick steps closer to shake Clint's hand, trying not to wince as Clint's fingers closed over his scraped knuckles. "Steve Rogers. Good to meet ya." Up close, Clint smelled just faintly of soap and a hint of something surprisingly flowery, and Steve could see that Clint's dirty-blonde hair was damp. He'd obviously caught Clint fresh out of the shower. That thought was so distracting that Steve barely registered the unobtrusive hearing aid in Clint's left ear.

"Likewise. Hey, let me get you an ice pack for that eye so you can still see out of it by the time you get home."

"Uh."

"Come on," Clint said. He backed up a step and then turned to walk back into his apartment, Lucky at his heels, not looking back to see if Steve was following. "I'm not a serial killer or anything, I promise. Nothing on my record but speeding tickets. Oh, and that one armed robbery. That's a joke, by the way. It was just a parking violation and even that was bullshit; I was ten steps away with the fucking change for the meter. That cop had it in for me from the start. Want a beer?"

Steve found himself in the middle of Clint's living room, letting the door fall closed behind him, a slow grin taking over his face. "Sure, yeah." Hot as it was, a beer sounded pretty good, actually.

The apartment was spacious and spartan, or possibly it only seemed spacious because it was so spartan. It had brick walls and very little in the way of furniture or decoration. It was littered with pizza boxes and empty bottles -- beer and soda and energy drinks -- and random bits of laundry, and a random assortment of tools and other detritus. A heavy target hung on the far wall under no less than four bows, the elegant curves of their spines somehow a perfect accent for the room. "You shoot?" Steve asked.

Clint emerged from what Steve assumed was the kitchen, holding out a long-necked bottle and an ice pack. He followed Steve's gaze toward the target and shrugged. "Yeah, it's a hobby. Hard to keep up in the city, though. Don't tell my landlord about it if you see her, okay?" He waved Steve toward a couch that had definitely seen better days. He picked up a rumpled purple t-shirt from the table, sniffed it, and pulled it on. Steve wasn't quite sure whether to be relieved or sad about that, but the shirt really didn't hide much.

Steve cracked the top off the beer and took a swig -- it wasn't anything to write home about, but it was cold and wet, which was all Steve had been hoping for -- and then tipped his head back to lay the ice pack on his face with a hiss.

Clint went back into the kitchen and emerged with another bottle and what looked like a slice of cold pizza. He flopped down onto the couch, on the opposite end from Steve, and offered the pizza to Lucky, who sniffed at it, then took it to a nearby spot to chew on it. Clint took a swallow of beer, and Steve let himself watch the way Clint's throat worked as he swallowed.

Then Steve took another sip from his own bottle just to make sure Clint didn't catch him staring.

God, when Steve told Bucky about this later, he would laugh his ass off, because usually it was Bucky making friends with random but inexplicably hot strangers.

"So," Steve said, because he couldn't just keep sitting here and staring, "you just moved here, then?"

"What makes you say that?" Clint's voice was suddenly entirely too casual, his entire posture gone from relaxed to _loose_ , the way Bucky looked when he was sliding into an alley to peel a couple of guys off of Steve.

Steve, who weighed maybe a hundred and ten pounds sopping wet and was asthmatic and had a heart murmur besides, was not used to people actually looking at him sidelong as if they were sizing him up as a threat. He blinked several times in confusion. "I just... you said it was hard to keep up with your hobby in the city. And you don't have any... stuff."

Clint held that ready-to-jump posture for another few seconds, and then sagged. "Oh, yeah. I did say that. Um. Sorry. Where I'm from, those are the kind of questions guys ask if they're about to jump you, and not in a fun way."

Steve choked on a sudden laugh, and then took another drink because if he started coughing he was going to have an asthma attack, and his inhaler was busted. "Sorry," he said, "you just... don't look like the kind of guy who gets randomly jumped. Too..." He waved vaguely at Clint's body, willing himself not to blush. "Too big."

Clint snorted. "It's the kind of big a guy develops after he's been jumped a few too many times. Besides, doesn't matter how big you are, hick assholes with a few drinks in 'em are going to feel the need to pick on anyone who's different. And this" --he tapped on the hearing aid-- "is different."

Steve shrugged. "Yeah, I guess that's a little more visible than a heart murmur." Clint, apparently recognizing it for the offering that it was, seemed to relax a little more. "Anyway," Steve continued, "do I look like the kind of guy who would do that kind of thing? To a guy twice my size, no less?"

"How should I know? You hear all kinds of crazy things about New York," Clint said, but he was smirking as he said it. "Plus, you've already been in one fight today, so what do I know? Maybe you're some kind of ringer martial artist who likes showing up dumb hicks twice your size. Maybe you were offended by my crappy beer."

"Oh, I am," Steve said, unhinging his Brooklyn drawl. "Least you could do is stock some decent beer for people who bring your dog home."

Clint raised an eyebrow, and then realized Steve was giving him shit, and laughed into his bottle. "I like you. We should hang out."

"I'm game," Steve agreed. Christ, Bucky was going to bust something from laughing. And then give Steve a really mind-blowing blowjob. At least, Steve hoped that's what would happen, because Clint was not getting any less hot with exposure, and Steve was going to be at a full-on boil by the time he got home.

Stupidly sexy or not, Clint turned out to be a pretty fun guy to talk to. Clint told some stories about weird stuff that was, apparently, perfectly normal behavior in the middle-of-nowhere Midwestern town where he'd grown up, and in exchange, Steve told a story or two about growing up in Brooklyn.

When Lucky got tired of being ignored and climbed up onto the couch to nudge his nose under Steve's hand, Steve asked where Clint had gotten him. Clint launched into a long, involved story that only partly made sense (Steve couldn't even tell if it would make more sense, or less, if Clint would actually tell it in the order it happened instead of skipping around randomly) and in the end, had almost nothing to do with the dog, except that it ended with, "So then I just kind of carried him to this vet that's down the street, in the middle of the fucking rain, right, and they're about to close, but I gave them the puppy-dog eyes, and Lucky was this close to bleeding out, so they let us in, and he's been mine ever since."

Steve laughed, and then realized that was more or less exactly the story of how Bucky and Steve got to be best friends, and that made him laugh even _harder_. It wasn't until he tried to straighten from that and his head spun that he wondered how many beers he'd had.

He hadn't been counting, exactly. Every so often, Clint would get up and wander into the kitchen, still talking, and come back out and slap another cold beer into Steve's hand. There had been at least three, and that was a lot for Steve, who had no body fat to absorb the alcohol, and hadn't had anything to eat since lunch besides. He leaned forward to count the bottles collected by his feet and... shit, were there _four_? And a mostly-finished fifth in his hand?

Shit.

"Shit," he said, and tried to stand up. "I should get home."

"Hey, wait," Clint said, grabbing the back of Steve's shirt and pulling him back down to the couch. "Dude, you're pretty unsteady there, you don't want to be going anywhere by yourself like that. You need to call a cab or a friend or something to come get you."

"Oh, yeah, probably a good idea." Steve fished his phone out of his pocket. It didn't turn on. "What the--" He hit the button again, harder. Nothing. "God damn it, it must've broke at the same time as my inhaler. Shit, _shit_."

And shit again, because Bucky always texted him when he got off work, and if Steve hadn't replied, he was going to be worried as hell. Steve was going to have to walk down to the shop to meet him as soon as he came out. If he wasn't already done; the light seemed to have faded. What the hell time was it, anyway?

Steve lurched to his feet again, swayed, and would have fallen if Clint hadn't stood up as well to steady him.

"Hey, look, you can use my phone, no biggie, we'll get you sorted," Clint said.

Bucky's number had been programmed into Steve's phone for so long he had no idea what the actual numbers were any more. But before he could tell Clint that, a voice echoed in through the open window that was braided into Steve's very spine.

"Steeeeeeve! God damn it, if you're not dead, I'm gonna kill you!"

"Fuck, what time is it?" Steve demanded. His feet were already taking him to the window.

"Like... almost nine?" Clint said.

"Oh, _fuck_ , he's been looking for _hours_. I am in so much trouble--" Steve pulled the screen out of the window by its tabs, ignoring Clint's aborted protest. "Hey, Buck! I'm okay!" He leaned out, waving wildly.

"Buck? Like, your friend Bucky you were telling me about before?"

"Boyfriend, actually," Steve said, now waving both arms. " _Bucky_! Up here!" Bucky had heard him and was looking around, but the streetlamps had come on and the glare was probably interfering with his vision.

"Jesus, don't fall out the damn window," Clint sighed, grabbing the back of Steve's shirt again. "Come on, let's just go down and meet up with him."

"Yeah, good idea." Steve leaned out again. "Hang on, Buck! I'm coming down, just stay there!" He pulled back. He wanted to run down the stairs -- he hated making Bucky worry for no good reason, mostly because of how often he made Bucky worry _with_ reason -- but he made himself take the ten seconds it took to slot Clint's screen back into place. "You don't have to come down," he said. "I can make it to the street on my own."

"Yeah," Clint agreed, "but if we're gonna hang out again, I should probably introduce myself to your boyfriend, right? Some guys are kind of funny about that sort of thing."

Steve shrugged, because Bucky trusted him. But if it made Clint feel better, sure, why not? Bucky would probably like Clint a lot, actually. Maybe they could all hang out together sometime. Oh, god, Bucky and Clint together -- it would be so much hot in one room, Steve wasn't sure he'd be able to handle it. He grinned and nearly tripped over his own feet on the way to the elevator.

Clint steadied him again. "You are such a lightweight," he said, laughing. "What's got you so giggly?"

Steve smirked. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Clint just shook his head, amused, and punched the button for the lobby before scratching Lucky's ears.

Bucky charged for Steve as soon as they emerged from the building. "Steve, you little shit, I've been trying to find you for _hours_ , what the fuck?" Steve ignored the irritation in his tone, though, because as soon as Bucky reached them, he pulled Steve into a fierce hug. "Christ, you had me scared," Bucky whispered into Steve's hair.

Steve leaned into it and petted Bucky's back, trying to soothe the shivering dread still there. "Hey, Bucky, s'okay, I'm okay. My phone got trashed or I'd have got your messages. I'm sorry, Bucky, I really am, I lost track of time and--"

Bucky pushed him back to arm's length, his grey eyes narrowing. "What happened to your face? Are you drunk?"

Steve grinned. "Little bit, yeah. Mugger tagged me. Ripped my shirt, too, but Clint had a mending kit, you can't hardly tell--"

Bucky rolled his eyes and kissed Steve's forehead. "You little shit," he said again, without heat. "I've been searching the goddamn alleys for your fucking _body_ and you've been starting a sewing circle and knocking back shots with some guy you..." He looked up, and Steve recognized the exact moment that Bucky had spotted Clint by the way his eyes widened and his mouth pursed, just slightly. "Holy fuck," he whispered.

Steve giggled. "Right?"

Clint, who'd been hanging back with Lucky, just watching, stepped a little closer now and offered his hand. "Hey there. Clint Barton." Lucky followed, sniffing curiously around Bucky's ankles.

Bucky smiled at the dog, then took Clint's hand, keeping one arm firmly around Steve's shoulders. "Bucky Barnes. I guess you've been looking out for Steve, here?"

Steve nudged Bucky hard with his elbow. "I can take care of myself, Buck."

Bucky and Clint both ignored that. "Yeah," Clint said. "He brought my dog home after some kind of thing with a mugger, so I offered him a beer by way of thanks, and the time just got away from us. Really sorry if you were worried."

"Nah," Bucky said. "Stevie gives me a heart attack about once a week, I figure I was overdue." He offered his hand to Lucky, then petted the tawny head and lightly thumped Lucky's side, setting off a breeze of wagging. Bucky's reactionary shivering had dissipated, and Steve could see a hint of swagger beginning to form in Bucky's slow smile.

Clint grinned. "Right, well, I'll leave you guys to it, I guess. Good to meetcha. Hope to see you guys around again sometime, yeah?" He clapped Steve's arm, just above the elbow and below where Bucky's hand was curled. "I see now why you were so totally oblivious to me hitting on you. Hot _damn_ , your boy's hot." He winked, aiming it somewhere between them, and strolled back into his building, Lucky trotting at his heels.

"Wha?" Steve managed after Clint had disappeared.

Bucky, who had just been standing there quietly, lost it at that, all but howling with laughter, entirely unmoved by Steve's embarrassed shoves. "Knock it off, Buck!" Steve whined. "How was I supposed to know he was hitting on me? Who the hell ever looks at _me_?"

"Folks with good taste do," Bucky responded immediately, as he always did, even though he was still chortling as he started to nudge Steve down the block toward home.

"Guess he's got fucking amazing taste, then," Steve said, "if he was hitting on me _and_ called you hot."

"Guess so," Bucky agreed. "Pretty fucking hot, himself. Jesus, Steve, how long you figure he spends at the gym just for those shoulders?"

"Don't think it's the gym," Steve said, leaning into Bucky's side despite the lingering heat of the day. "He's a... whaddya call it, bow-and-arrow guy. Archer, that's the word. That's probably where he gets the shoulders. And the arms." The last word came out as a breathy shiver, and Bucky hummed in shared appreciation.

Steve giggled and snuggled in closer. "I'm just sayin'," he said, "you know I'm yours forever, Buck, but if you wanted to have a threesome, I wouldn't be opposed to-- Whoa, wait, why you spinnin' me around like that?"

"Threesome," Bucky singsonged, pulling Steve back down the road toward Clint's building. "You said! No takebacks!"

"Bucky, _no_ ," Steve hissed, grabbing at Bucky's arm and trying to hold him back -- but Bucky had half again Steve's mass, and was sober, to boot. "I am gonna die -- _actually die_ \-- of embarrassment if you just go knock on his door and... And I don't even have an inhaler with me, mine's busted, see?" He scrambled in his pocket for the broken plastic.

Bucky sighed, long-suffering. "I've got your spare in my pocket, this ain't my first rodeo." He pulled up short in the dim twilight between two streetlamps and turned, cupping Steve's face in his hands. "Hey, babe, if you really don't wanna, we'll go on home, yeah?" He searched Steve's expression minutely. "You tell me what you want to do, and we'll do it. But that guy? Is fucking _hot_ , and better, he thinks we're hot, too."

Bucky _didn't_ say that it wasn't often that they ran into someone who thought Steve was worth a second look, because they both knew that already, and acknowledging it made Bucky angry and Steve tired. Bucky also didn't point out that there was no way Bucky would consider playing around with someone who wouldn't agree with Bucky that Steve hung the damn moon, because Bucky did not admit out loud to being that sentimental.

And here was Clint, who hadn't set off any of Steve's very sensitive instincts for assholes, and who had been hitting on Steve. Who had, Steve suddenly realized, insisted on escorting Steve down to the street in order to make sure Bucky wasn't a possessive or abusive asshole, and to defuse the situation and take the blame for Steve being late, in case he was. And while it was totally unnecessary -- Steve couldn't imagine a guy more caring and trusting than Bucky -- it was also an incredibly sweet thing for Clint to have done.

And it didn't hurt one little bit that Clint was insanely hot. Steve recalled his first sight of Clint, shirtless and still damp from a shower, and shivered. "You took me by surprise, is all," Steve told Bucky. "But he seems like a good guy. So, um, yeah, I'm in." Steve wondered if his blush was bright enough yet to double as another streetlamp. Sure felt like it. "I... maybe should sober up some, first, at least?"

Bucky leaned in and kissed Steve, and Steve pushed into it with a contented sigh. "God, you are too good for this world, Steve," Bucky breathed. "Come on. Let's go find your new friend and offer to buy him dinner, and we'll see what happens from there, okay?"

When they got back to Clint's building, they discovered him sitting on the front steps. Lucky was nowhere to be seen. Clint smirked as they came into view. "Glad to see _one_ of you knows how to take a hint," he said. He stuck out a hand and Bucky grabbed it, pulling Clint to his feet.

Bucky kept Clint's hand for a second longer than necessary, then deliberately trailed his fingertips across Clint's palm as he let go. Steve had been on the other end of that move a hundred times or more, so he was watching for that instant of surprise on Clint's face, and delighted to watch it bloom into pleasure. Yeah, this would be fun.

"We were gonna go get some dinner," Steve said. "Thought we'd see if you wanted to join us."

Clint grinned wide. "Good pizza place just a couple of blocks up," he suggested.

"Pizza's good," Bucky agreed. "Lead the way." His eyes were heavy-lidded and his voice already low and purring. Christ, even if Clint said no -- and Steve was pretty sure now that Clint wasn't gonna say no -- then Steve was definitely getting it good tonight. A shiver coiled down Steve's spine.

Steve laced the fingers of his right hand with Bucky's left and felt Bucky squeeze, just a little. Clint gestured the direction, and fell into step on Steve's other side. Which made sense, when Steve thought about it, keeping the two of them on the side where Clint's hearing was better, but that logic didn't stop Steve from feeling the heat of being bracketed by two incredibly good-looking guys. With intent.

The place where Clint brought them turned out to be one of those old-fashioned pizzeria places with dim lights and actual cloth tablecloths that trailed nearly to the floor and a distinctly familial resemblance between the teenager taking phone orders at the counter and the waiter darting between the tables and the guy tossing pizzas in the kitchen (clearly visible through the window built into the dividing wall for, apparently, just that purpose).

Bucky and Clint had clearly developed some sort of telepathy on the walk over, because neither of them hesitated even for an instant in choosing seats directly opposite each other at the four-top the waiter led them to. Whichever seat Steve chose, he was going to be situated between them, and from Bucky's too-innocent smile, Steve was certain that was deliberate.

Fine. He sat, feeling suddenly jittery and on-edge, as if everyone else in the restaurant knew what the three of them were considering.

No, not considering.

_Negotiating._

Even if it was -- so far -- a negotiation conducted entirely in smiles and subtle touches and cautious, only-half-joking innuendo.

No one was actually staring at them, Steve told himself. They looked like three friends having dinner together.

Or they would, if Steve could stop _blushing_.

They hadn't even finished giving the waiter their drink orders when Bucky's ankle hooked Steve's under the table. That was a familiar comfort, anchoring, and Steve flashed Bucky a smile. Bucky winked, and his lips twitched in a way Steve knew all too well.

It wasn't until after they'd ordered their pizza that he realized Clint's foot was nudging up against his, as well.

Steve bit the inside of his cheek. It was totally unfair how cool and collected Bucky was acting, like they did this all the time, when Steve knew for a fact the only other time they'd fooled around with someone else had been years ago. But Peggy had been the one to make all the first moves, there, and Steve had no idea what to do in the here and now.

 _Man up, Rogers_ , he told himself. _You wanna do this or not?_

He did, no question. Clint was sexy and funny and genuinely nice, and... Fuck it. Steve wrapped his leg around Clint's, and then lifted his chin to meet Clint's gaze steadily, despite the blush that Steve was pretty sure was now permanently etched into his face.

Clint smiled and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest in a way that made his biceps bulge. "This _is_ going to be fun," he murmured.

They stayed at the restaurant for nearly two hours, and Steve thought he was going to go mad.

At first, it was just their ankles and calves pressed together under the table -- Steve was pretty sure Bucky and Clint's long legs had met somewhere in the middle as well.

Waiting on the pizza, Bucky had put a hand over Steve's on the corner of the table and started idly stroking the inside of his wrist. It wasn't anything unusual for Bucky, who was tactile and handsy anyway, and it was especially to be expected since Steve had worried the hell out of Bucky earlier. But then Steve had caught Clint watching the movement with those intense eyes and the faintest smile, and it was like each tiny caress was shooting an electric shock into the vein under Bucky's thumb. After that, Steve couldn't help but notice the way Bucky kept one hand on Steve pretty much constantly -- holding his hand, petting his wrist, patting his back, squeezing his knee under the table.

It wasn't possessive, though; Bucky's posture was relaxed and open, his smiles full of laughter. The looks he shot across the table at Clint were challenging -- but daring, not threatening.

Clint, it seemed, responded well to such challenge. Steve wasn't sure how eating a slice of pizza could be so fucking sexy, but Clint managed it: surprisingly delicate fingers folding the slice just so. Tipping his head back when he took a bite to show off his neck. Using just his lips to tease out a stringy bit of cheese, or licking a bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth while holding steady eye contact.

(It had made Steve hold his breath when Clint did that to him, but the look on Bucky's face and the way Bucky's hand twitched on Steve's wrist, when it was Bucky's turn for that treatment, absolutely lit Steve on _fire_ , burning up the very last of Steve's hesitation.)

Clint also contrived several times to put a hand on Steve's arm, lingering just long enough for Steve's eyes to be drawn to the flex of muscle in Clint's shoulder and neck. Whenever Clint spotted Steve looking, he just smiled knowingly.

About the time the waiter took the pizza tray away, Bucky's hand got a little more ambitious under the table, stroking lightly along Steve's thigh, not quite reaching into dangerous territory, but certainly trending in that direction. And then Clint tipped his chair back on two legs and _stretched_ , showing off his arms and letting his shirt ride up to expose a few inches of those abs.

Steve swallowed through a throat that felt dry, and dragged his gaze back to Bucky. Bucky was staring at Clint, too, lips parted and pupils blown. As if sensing Steve's scrutiny, Bucky's eyes snapped to him.

Bucky hesitated a moment, glanced at Clint's exposed stomach, and then gave Steve a little jerk of the head that meant _go ahead_.

"Hey Clint," Steve said. Casually. Nice and casual. Super casual.

"Yeah, Steve?" Clint said, head still tipped back in his stretch. Steve could hear the smirk in his voice.

"You ticklish at all?"

"Wha-- Oh, _shit_!" Clint flopped back forward, arms curling in for protection, but Steve had already closed the distance, fingers dancing across that exposed skin. Clint bit off a choked keen of suppressed laughter, trying in vain to keep from drawing the attention of the other diners. "Shit, fu-- Stop, yes, god, _stop_!" Clint pleaded, and Steve sat back upright, grinning widely.

"Well, that's good to know," he said in that same calm, super-casual tone. His fingers tingled where they'd brushed over skin. Clint's abs had been exactly as firm as they looked.

Clint gulped down half a glass of water, rubbing at his stomach. "God. You're a menace."

"Could'a told you that myself," Bucky said, but his voice was low and husky, and he was leaning forward, elbows on the table, eyes dark. "That was hot," he added. "God, tell me you're in your right mind again, Stevie, so we can ditch this place already."

"I'm damn well _not_ in my right mind after that; are you nuts?" Steve snorted. "But I reckon I've had enough time and food by now to be able to say yes or no without blaming it on the beer."

"And?" Bucky's eyes were all for Steve now, playful and earnest.

"And fuck _yes_ ," Steve said. He cocked his head and lifted an eyebrow at Bucky. "Way you two've been teasing me all night, I don't think you could handle me all by yourself."

That was nothing but bullshit and bravado, and Bucky damn well knew it, but he laughed anyway and lifted Steve's knuckles to his lips. "I musta done something really right in a previous life," he swore, and then looked over at Clint. "Well?"

Clint grinned. "Your place?"

"Suits fine," Bucky agreed, tossing a couple of bills on the table. He slung his arms around both of their necks like a genial drunk (even if he hadn't touched a drop all night) as they went back out on the street. "Gentlemen," he sighed happily, "I have got some really fantastic ideas to suggest."

Clint skimmed a look at each of them. "Do any of them involve my mouth and Steve's cock? Because I've been dying to suggest that since, like, his second swallow of beer back at my place."

Steve's face was flaming again.

"I like the way you think, Clint." Bucky's arm tightened around Steve, pulling him in so Bucky could drop a kiss onto his hair. "Whaddya say, Steve? We'll just set you right in the middle and take you apart until you don't even know your own name."

Steve just swallowed hard and shivered, but that was all the answer Bucky needed.

***

(3 months later)

A happy bark caught Steve's attention, and he had just enough time to close his sketchbook to protect his latest drawing from drool before Lucky's head shoved it aside. Lucky's chin dropped onto Steve's knee and the dog let out a soft, wholly unconvincing whine, looking up at Steve piteously until Steve laughed and rubbed Lucky's ears. "You are a tragedy," he said.

A minute later, Clint dropped onto the park bench near Steve. "Isn't it getting a little chilly for you to be out here for hours on end like this?" he asked.

"Not you, too," Steve grumbled. "Bucky's already at me about it. Fall is the best time of year for colors, okay? He made me bundle up like I'm on a damn polar expedition, I'll be fine."

"Okay, okay," Clint conceded, holding up his hands in surrender before stretching them out along the back of the bench. He watched Lucky investigating the leaves. "He still at work?"

"Hasn't texted yet," Steve said. "Should be done soon, though. You have plans tonight?"

Clint snorted. "Do I ever have plans anymore that don't include you guys?"

"Didn't you go to that club with Natasha a couple of weeks ago?"

"She just wanted someone to pretend to be her boyfriend so the creepers wouldn't hit on her. And then she went home with someone else and I wound up -- wait for it -- back at your place, watching terrible movies."

Steve smirked. "You sound very grouchy for someone who ended the night so fucked out that Bucky had to carry you to bed. Anyway, fuck you, those were _great_ movies."

"They _were_ great, until you hilarious assholes decided that the middle of a children's movie marathon would be a great time to tag-team me. Now I'm gonna get a boner every time I see a clownfish or a giant robot."

Steve cackled and Clint shoved him, which only made him laugh harder. "Anyway, if you don't have plans, Bucky and I wanna take you to dinner."

"Yes to that, I'm starving. But so formal!" Clint teased. "You trying to butter me up for something? I told you already, if you want to try that thing from that one video, I was game."

"No," Steve said, "well, _yes_ , actually, probably. Maybe." It's a good thing Bucky and Clint both thought the blushing was cute, because apparently Steve was never going to get over it. "But that's not what we, um."

"What're you, gonna propose or something?"

"Uh." All the blood in Steve's body seemed determined to make its way to his face.

"I was kidding," Clint said.

"Well, not _propose_ ," Steve hedged. "I mean, it's only been--"

"Steve. What the hell."

Steve scrunched down, hunching his shoulders up around his ears. "Bucky's not even here."

"You're freaking me out now. Just tell me." Lucky trotted over and nosed under Clint's hand, begging to be petted. Clint rubbed at his ears absently.

Steve made himself draw a breath. "Um. We were gonna ask if you wanted to be our, um. Boyfriend."

Clint blinked, then grinned. "Aw, Stevie, are you asking me to be steadies?"

"If you're going to be a _jerk_ about it--" Steve's grumbling was cut off when Clint leaned over to kiss him. "...Nnnh," he sighed when Clint finally sat back up. "Was that a yes?"

"Do I need to repeat myself?" Clint asked.

"Yeah, you're gonna need to say that again a little louder," Steve shot back, grinning. "Wait, hang on, that's my phone, Bucky must be done with work." He fished the phone out of his pocket.

_omw home! you find clnit, we on for dinner?_

Steve scooted closer to Clint, leaning into the warmth and letting Clint read over his shoulder as he thumbed out a response:

_We're at the park. Dinner is go. Already spilled the beans, sorry. Hurry up, our boyfriend is hungry._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks and blame to [sara_holmes](http://captn-sara-holmes.tumblr.com) for encouragement and general cheerleading!
> 
> Come watch me flailing about hot superheroes and more on [tumblr](http://everyworldneedslove.tumblr.com)!
> 
>  **Further Note:** In any normal relationship, Bucky's "need to check in/know where you are" treatment of Steve would be borderline controlling/manipulative or abusive behavior; this is why Clint feels the need to subtly check Bucky out when he shows up. In this _particular_ case, however, it's a reaction borne out of experience, because Steve does, in fact, have a tendency to get himself in over his head and wind up needing to be rescued, and I've tried to make that clear.


End file.
